Season 11, Week 0, "Introduction"
Sep. 19th, 2019 09:38 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rayaso.
It was hard getting out of the chair. It was too low and soft, without any armrests. Roger hated this kind of chair. “What were they thinking?” he thought. “This is a doctor’s office, for chrissakes – with old people!” He refused to use a cane because it made him feel like a cripple. The receptionist, seeing him struggle, helped him up. He hated that.
“Are you OK, dear?” said Stephanie.
“Fine, thank you,” he said once he was up and stable.
“But I’m not a ‘dear,’” grumbled Roger to himself, “I’m a goddam old man and I hate it.”
After cataloging his aches and pains for the cheerful young doctor and getting the usual diagnosis – “you’re no longer young” – Roger headed home, stooping a little more than usual so he could see his feet, shuffling slightly and being careful not to trip over anything on his way to the bus stop.
Roger was well past 64, and there was no one to need him and no one feed him. All he could do was wait to die.
“This is unacceptable,” he thought as the bus arrived. “It’s time for the Clock.”
His wife had died long ago and their son was getting old himself. Paul had his life and his own family. Roger was used to being an afterthought, and he knew it had to be that way. He had outlived his life.
Roger’s memory was failing and he’d forgotten too many important things, but he always knew where he kept the Clock. It was in an old, battered suitcase under his side of the bed. They were all he had left from his father, who had run off when Roger was 8, leaving his family behind. He hated his father for abandoning them like that.
Roger’s wife had hated the Clock after he’d shown it to her, along with the note from his father.
“It’s unnatural,” Rosie had said. “No good will come of it. There’s a time for everything, and when it’s your time, it’s your time. Plain and simple.”
For her sake, Roger had kept it hidden, but he always knew he’d use it someday.
The only time he’d brought it out again was when Rosie had had cancer. He’d wanted to give it to her, but she’d turned it down, even when Roger had begged her to use it. “It’s my time,” she’d said. He’d lost Rosie long ago, but he still had the Clock, and it was time to take it out again.
The bus driver waited for Roger to get off. He was a pleasant young man Roger had seen many times. “Take your time,” the driver said, as Roger slowly got off the bus, but he knew the other passengers were getting annoyed by the delay. “Better not miss my transfer,” said a student under her breath.
“Wait ‘till you’re old,” Roger thought, remembering all the times he’d held up the line at the grocery store, fumbling to pay for his groceries. He knew the other customers regretted getting in line behind him. No one ever said anything, but he could sense their irritation.
Time had eaten away at Roger’s body, but he still had his pride and he despised the indignities of his life. He could rage all he wanted to against the dying of his light, but it didn’t change a damn thing except make him unpleasant. Only one thing could help – the Clock.
Once he was home, Roger sat down to rest a bit, then headed for their bedroom. It still had all the frilly decorations Rosie had loved, but he’d never liked them. He had never said anything to Rosie – how could he? -- and after her passing he had kept everything the same in the house. The only change Roger had made was to put some photographs of her next to the bed and on the mantelpiece. Rosie had hated how she looked in pictures, but he’d always thought she looked beautiful.
Getting down on the floor was hard and working his way back up was harder. “Damn these old muscles,” Roger thought, as he finally got the suitcase and put it on the bed.
The Clock wasn’t much to look at, just an old round wall clock in a plain wood cabinet. Roger didn’t know how old it was or where it originally came from. His mother had said his father had brought it home from the war. It was a strange clock. Instead of hours and minutes, the hands marked off years, from 0 to 91 and it currently showed 88, Roger’s age.
The note from his father contained a snippet from an old poem.
Backward, turn backward, O Time, in your flight,
Make me a child again just for tonight!
Scrawled underneath it his father had written “For my son turn hands back to start again.”
“It’s finally time,” thought Roger, sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the Clock in his lap. “All I have to do is reset this.”
Just turn the Clock back, and he would have no more aches, no more pains. He would be able to pick his keys off the floor without groaning. “And I’d never have to see that young doctor again,” he thought, which pleased him greatly.
Roger moved into the kitchen, which Rosie had always kept so neat. “I’ve let it slip,” thought Roger, as he fixed himself a cup of coffee and brought out some store-bought cookies. He had a sweet tooth and she’d always kept him well-supplied with treats.
Sitting at the table, he looked out into Rosie’s garden, which showed his years of neglect. He’d kept it perfect at first, but as he got older, he just couldn’t do it anymore, and he couldn’t afford to pay someone to take care of it.
Roger thought of their son, Paul, and how much he loved him and how proud of him they’d been. He lived across the country and they only saw each other a couple of times a year. “Paul’s so busy,” his father thought.
Roger’s mind drifted over the highs and lows of his life, and he picked at his regrets. He’d always wanted to be an engineer and build things – big, important things like dams and bridges, but he had worked in the factory, like all his friends. “With Rosie teaching, we did all right,” thought Roger. “Never wanted anything important.”
All he had to do was decide how far back to turn the Clock.
“Do I want to be a baby? Not a teenager. The twenties were pretty good years,” he thought.
Whatever he picked, he knew he got a clean slate. He would live a better life this time. “Without Rosie . . .” he thought. “But I wouldn’t even know her. I’d be a baby.”
He remembered how they’d met, at the grocery store . . . their first date . . . how he’d courted her. He spent what was the rest of the morning sitting on the bed, thinking of Rosie.
Finally, Roger was ready for the Clock. He wrote a short note for Paul, set the Clock on his lap, and moved the hands forward to 91, his alloted life. “Time to be with my Rosie again,” he thought.
The coroner’s report found that Roger had died of a heart attack. The note in his hand was his father’s note, on which he had added “It was just my time.”
* * * * *
Note: I made a mistake when I originally posted this and had Roger turn the clock hands backward, which would have made him younger. This was from an early draft. I corrected it so that he turns the hands forward, past his life span. I apologize for the mistake. I took advantage of the loose nature of an Introduction, which does not result in any eliminations.
The lines of poetry were from “Rock Me to Sleep” by Elizabeth Akers Allen (1859). The first stanza is:
“Backward, turn backward, O Time, in your flight,
Make me a child again just for tonight!
Mother, come back from the echoless shore,
Take me again to your heart as of yore;
Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care,
Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair;
Over my slumbers your loving watch keep; —
Rock me to sleep, mother, – rock me to sleep!”
See https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/52071/rock-me-to-sleep for the complete poem.
My grandmother had a framed black and white illustration in her kitchen of a mother rocking a baby in a cradle, with the first two lines at the top.
BACKWARDS, TURN BACKWARDS
It was hard getting out of the chair. It was too low and soft, without any armrests. Roger hated this kind of chair. “What were they thinking?” he thought. “This is a doctor’s office, for chrissakes – with old people!” He refused to use a cane because it made him feel like a cripple. The receptionist, seeing him struggle, helped him up. He hated that.
“Are you OK, dear?” said Stephanie.
“Fine, thank you,” he said once he was up and stable.
“But I’m not a ‘dear,’” grumbled Roger to himself, “I’m a goddam old man and I hate it.”
After cataloging his aches and pains for the cheerful young doctor and getting the usual diagnosis – “you’re no longer young” – Roger headed home, stooping a little more than usual so he could see his feet, shuffling slightly and being careful not to trip over anything on his way to the bus stop.
Roger was well past 64, and there was no one to need him and no one feed him. All he could do was wait to die.
“This is unacceptable,” he thought as the bus arrived. “It’s time for the Clock.”
His wife had died long ago and their son was getting old himself. Paul had his life and his own family. Roger was used to being an afterthought, and he knew it had to be that way. He had outlived his life.
Roger’s memory was failing and he’d forgotten too many important things, but he always knew where he kept the Clock. It was in an old, battered suitcase under his side of the bed. They were all he had left from his father, who had run off when Roger was 8, leaving his family behind. He hated his father for abandoning them like that.
Roger’s wife had hated the Clock after he’d shown it to her, along with the note from his father.
“It’s unnatural,” Rosie had said. “No good will come of it. There’s a time for everything, and when it’s your time, it’s your time. Plain and simple.”
For her sake, Roger had kept it hidden, but he always knew he’d use it someday.
The only time he’d brought it out again was when Rosie had had cancer. He’d wanted to give it to her, but she’d turned it down, even when Roger had begged her to use it. “It’s my time,” she’d said. He’d lost Rosie long ago, but he still had the Clock, and it was time to take it out again.
The bus driver waited for Roger to get off. He was a pleasant young man Roger had seen many times. “Take your time,” the driver said, as Roger slowly got off the bus, but he knew the other passengers were getting annoyed by the delay. “Better not miss my transfer,” said a student under her breath.
“Wait ‘till you’re old,” Roger thought, remembering all the times he’d held up the line at the grocery store, fumbling to pay for his groceries. He knew the other customers regretted getting in line behind him. No one ever said anything, but he could sense their irritation.
Time had eaten away at Roger’s body, but he still had his pride and he despised the indignities of his life. He could rage all he wanted to against the dying of his light, but it didn’t change a damn thing except make him unpleasant. Only one thing could help – the Clock.
Once he was home, Roger sat down to rest a bit, then headed for their bedroom. It still had all the frilly decorations Rosie had loved, but he’d never liked them. He had never said anything to Rosie – how could he? -- and after her passing he had kept everything the same in the house. The only change Roger had made was to put some photographs of her next to the bed and on the mantelpiece. Rosie had hated how she looked in pictures, but he’d always thought she looked beautiful.
Getting down on the floor was hard and working his way back up was harder. “Damn these old muscles,” Roger thought, as he finally got the suitcase and put it on the bed.
The Clock wasn’t much to look at, just an old round wall clock in a plain wood cabinet. Roger didn’t know how old it was or where it originally came from. His mother had said his father had brought it home from the war. It was a strange clock. Instead of hours and minutes, the hands marked off years, from 0 to 91 and it currently showed 88, Roger’s age.
The note from his father contained a snippet from an old poem.
Backward, turn backward, O Time, in your flight,
Make me a child again just for tonight!
Scrawled underneath it his father had written “For my son turn hands back to start again.”
“It’s finally time,” thought Roger, sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the Clock in his lap. “All I have to do is reset this.”
Just turn the Clock back, and he would have no more aches, no more pains. He would be able to pick his keys off the floor without groaning. “And I’d never have to see that young doctor again,” he thought, which pleased him greatly.
Roger moved into the kitchen, which Rosie had always kept so neat. “I’ve let it slip,” thought Roger, as he fixed himself a cup of coffee and brought out some store-bought cookies. He had a sweet tooth and she’d always kept him well-supplied with treats.
Sitting at the table, he looked out into Rosie’s garden, which showed his years of neglect. He’d kept it perfect at first, but as he got older, he just couldn’t do it anymore, and he couldn’t afford to pay someone to take care of it.
Roger thought of their son, Paul, and how much he loved him and how proud of him they’d been. He lived across the country and they only saw each other a couple of times a year. “Paul’s so busy,” his father thought.
Roger’s mind drifted over the highs and lows of his life, and he picked at his regrets. He’d always wanted to be an engineer and build things – big, important things like dams and bridges, but he had worked in the factory, like all his friends. “With Rosie teaching, we did all right,” thought Roger. “Never wanted anything important.”
All he had to do was decide how far back to turn the Clock.
“Do I want to be a baby? Not a teenager. The twenties were pretty good years,” he thought.
Whatever he picked, he knew he got a clean slate. He would live a better life this time. “Without Rosie . . .” he thought. “But I wouldn’t even know her. I’d be a baby.”
He remembered how they’d met, at the grocery store . . . their first date . . . how he’d courted her. He spent what was the rest of the morning sitting on the bed, thinking of Rosie.
Finally, Roger was ready for the Clock. He wrote a short note for Paul, set the Clock on his lap, and moved the hands forward to 91, his alloted life. “Time to be with my Rosie again,” he thought.
The coroner’s report found that Roger had died of a heart attack. The note in his hand was his father’s note, on which he had added “It was just my time.”
* * * * *
Note: I made a mistake when I originally posted this and had Roger turn the clock hands backward, which would have made him younger. This was from an early draft. I corrected it so that he turns the hands forward, past his life span. I apologize for the mistake. I took advantage of the loose nature of an Introduction, which does not result in any eliminations.
The lines of poetry were from “Rock Me to Sleep” by Elizabeth Akers Allen (1859). The first stanza is:
“Backward, turn backward, O Time, in your flight,
Make me a child again just for tonight!
Mother, come back from the echoless shore,
Take me again to your heart as of yore;
Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care,
Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair;
Over my slumbers your loving watch keep; —
Rock me to sleep, mother, – rock me to sleep!”
See https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/52071/rock-me-to-sleep for the complete poem.
My grandmother had a framed black and white illustration in her kitchen of a mother rocking a baby in a cradle, with the first two lines at the top.
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